The Vegas exploits
by GreyMajesty
Summary: Clint and Natasha go to Vegas. Strippers, tigers, and fighting will make an appearance. This will make more sense if you read my story "All bets are off". If you don't, it can be a stand alone but will be more enjoyable the former way.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Marvel or any recognizable characters here. The unrecognizable ones are mine.

CHAPTER ONE

Clint threw the steering wheel to the right, the van's wheels skipping over a patch of ice while the car behind them barely rounded the corner. The light dusting of snow made the roads slick, but in the early hours of the morning, hardly anyone was up. Christmas eve day, and here he was racing down the streets of Vegas in a car chase. A smattering of gunshots rang out, and Clint cursed as a bullet punched right through the left side mirror.

"Goddamn it." He looked over his shoulder at Natasha, who was bracing her feet on his seat and loading her gun. "Anytime you want to return the favor, feel free."

She blew him a kiss, flipped her scarlet curls over her shoulder, and then broke the window with the butt of her pistol, glass falling in and out of the van, before exchanging fire.

Clint swerved to avoid an oncoming car and floored the accelerator.

"You could have just rolled it down!"

"It's not like we were going to return it, anyway!" Natasha finally managed to shoot out a tire and the pursuing car slid off the road and into a sign advertising health insurance. Clint slowed back to normal speeds and eased the van into a parking stall outside a bar. He looked over the seat at Natasha.

"Alright?" She rolled her eyes and clicked the safety back on.

"Yes, bird brain."

"Good. How's about we get ourselves a drink in this establishment?"

Natasha threw a hooded sweatshirt over her uniform to ward off the light chill and climbed out the window.

"The establishment where our _friends_ happen to be drinking?" She looked pointedly at the nondescript black humvee parked a few stalls over, the same vehicle that had nearly run them off a bridge yesterday. Clint raised his eyebrows.

"Happy coincidence?" She punched him in the arm and tucked her gun into the sweater pocket. He followed her inside, where the lingering odor of smoke and sweat perfumed a few red vinyl benches and a long bar counter with mismatched stools. A few lonely drunks peppered the stools, and one man sat in a corner booth eating an order of fries.

From where he stood, Clint could see Natasha's head move as she looked around, memorizing exits and the layout of the bar. Clint just moved to the counter and plopped himself down next to a guy in a leather jacket. There was no barkeep in sight. He turned to the guy next to him.

"How about that-" Jacket guy's arm flew out and Clint dove off his stool as a shot rang out, the bullet cracking the grimy glass windows. A woman in the back ran for the exit, gun in hand, and Natasha pulled her gun from the sweater, firing as the lady ducked behind a table. The other patrons hit the ground as Clint reached for his bow, cursing as he remembered it was in the van. He picked up an abandoned beer mug and whipped its contents at his attacker. The beer flew in a wide arc, and Clint moved with it as the guy instinctively ducked. He grabbed the man's gun hand and twisted it, popping the gun from the guy's fingers and holding his arm in a lock, moving so he was standing on the fingers of the other hand as he forced him to the floor. There was a shattering noise from behind him and Clint turned to see Natasha standing over the woman's inert form while holding half a broken bottle. Clint forced the guy's hands together as Natasha brought over a pair of handcuffs.

"Nice gun," He said, as she cuffed the guy and forced him upright. "I'm keeping it."

Natasha eyed it and then shrugged. She turned to the other patrons of the bar.

"If anybody decides to talk about what they saw here today, remember that this was self-defense. And should you decide to spread tales about us, what happens next will be seen by those we work for as the same." She pushed their captive out the door and towards their shot-up blue van. Clint hopped over to the humvee and looked in the window.

"Nothing." He watched Natasha efficiently hogtie and gag the man before sticking him in the cargo space. He hopped back in the driver's seat and she took shotgun.

"Next time we get a car with a trunk. I like putting people in the trunk." Clint looked at her.

"Just because you like doing it doesn't mean it's nice."

She rolled her eyes again and fiddled with the radio, sliding her feet up on the dash. _White Christmas_ came on, and Clint hummed along under his breath as they slid back out into traffic.

"Now what?"

"We've got to get the weapons out of their hands. If we can figure out where they are…" Natasha looked at the guy in back, and then crawled over the seats to dig through his pockets. She came up with a piece of paper.

"A ticket stub? For what, _A Christmas Carol_?"

She held it up to the window.

"No, the Cirque. Looks like we're having an even weirder Christmas than we thought."

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By the time they got to the area where the circus was setting up, Natasha had changed into black pants and a snug grey shirt. She slid her gun into her belt as Clint navigated his way through the traffic and to the ticket booth. He pulled the car up to the window, where a guy in a black baseball cap was typing into his phone.

"Hi there!" Clint put on his best _I'm a boring person_ smile. The guy set down his phone.

"Welcome to the Cirque du Soleil. We're still setting up right now, but if you come back in a few hours, performances will be starting-"

"Oh, no," Natasha purred, winding her way from the back, Russian accent thick. "You misunderstand. We're- how do you say-performers. We don't know where we are to go."

The guy raised his eyebrows at them.

"You're looking for the check-in. It's around back." Clint thanked him and backed out into the street, turning around behind the building.

"Performers, Nat? I was going to do the badge thing."

Natasha handed Clint their hostage's ticket stub.

"But now I'll get to use my knives. It seems like a fair trade."

"What, are you going to waltz into the middle of a high-class traveling group and pretend you've been with them for years?" Natasha smiled and pulled off her sweater, reaching under the seat.

"I wouldn't call it waltzing."

She pulled out her black bag and Clint put his head down on the dash with a groan.

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Twenty five minutes later, he was outside of a seedy strip club just down the block from where the Cirque was setting up. Their guy- a man by the name of Isaac Jacobson, went an impressive one minute with Natasha's thighs around his neck in the back of the van before assuring them that this was the rendezvous point for the weapons later tonight. If all went to plan, Natasha would go in undercover with Isaac and lie in wait while Clint went to the Cirque and followed the smugglers to the club afterwards. Clint glanced in the back, where their costumes stretched out on the back seat. Reaching his hand through the window, he fingered the sleeve of the stolen navy clean up crew suit and wrinkled his nose at the residual smell. The jacket had come from a worker's gym bag as they took a phone call. Clint had felt a tiny bit bad about it before remembering that the worker still had their ID clipped to their belt.

He moved to put it on as Natasha slid out of the van's back door. The fabric got to his forearm and then stopped, bunching on his muscles. He flexed, and he heard a seam split. Natasha snickered from behind him.

"Did you happen to see the person you lifted that from?"

He wiggled out of it and laid it over the window. "No."

She ran a hand over the pocket and smiled, lifting a tube of mascara from the pocket.

"Good try, Clint. Unless you can de-Hulk yourself and become a woman we're not going anywhere unless-"

He froze as a wicked smile lit her lips, and she lifted the suit up to her chest.  
"Unless we are."

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"Quit picking at it!"

Natasha slapped his hand as he made another grab at the tights printed with fishnet patterns. He had drawn the line for how much he loved his job at leg shaving.

"Naaaaat-" He drug her name out- "Why can't we just go back in and get another uniform?"

"Because we don't have time. Isaac says the arms buyers will be here soon to 'relax' while the others assemble at the Cirque." She pulled his brown curly wig down and smoothed it.

"There. Now you look like a proper stripper." He turned to look at his reflection and heard Natasha's phone click.

"Don't you dare take another one." He slid his gun down between his artificial chest and his skin and stared at himself in the window.

His short hair was hidden under a wig of wavy brown tresses tied with glittery ribbons into messy double buns. A purple leotard with a floppy short skirt of silky material, shimmery sleeves, and glittery heels completed the ensemble. Natasha grabbed his chin and gave him a critical look.

"Knew we forgot something. Come here, hawky." She plopped him down on the edge of the van.

"Look up."

He raised his eyes just as she came at him with a makeup brush. He flinched to the side and she swiped the van with a makeup stain.

"Goddamn it, Clint. You're not going in there without contouring."

"Just keep your sticks the hell away from my eyes and we'll get on just fine." He resettled and she began painting his face.

"It really doesn't match your skin tone, you're less of an ivory-"

He stood up.

"I think we're done now. I've got to go in soon if we're going to pull this off."

He turned back to the mirror and lost it laughing.

"Nat, you can't be serious. I look like a forty year old ."

She shrugged and clipped her newly minted ID badge to her uniform, along with her false driver's license for her alias.

"Some like it old."

He walked with her to the front of the van.

"I want a stripper name."

"Absolutely not, Barton." Natasha gave him a look that promised pain.

"If you get to be Natalia Radoslovich then I ought to get to be something too. Hmm…"

"Barton, shut up. You just need a name to get in the gate."

He looked up the road to where he could see the glittering lights of the Vegas strip, and the cars full of people who probably never dreamed of stealing IDs or cross-dressing to bring down an arms dealing ring.

"Sasha Glitter."

"Shut up." She was already crossing the road.

"Cotton Candy Sue. Oh, oh! Jennifer Wiggles. Peacock Pandora."

Nat stopped on the other side and looked back.

"I don't care what the hell you call yourself as long as I don't have to look at you in that leotard any longer than I have to." She gestured at the door. "Scoot."

He scooted as well as an undercover man with an inflatable bosom and high heels could. A man leaving the club wondered idly why one of the dancers was walking through the parking lot in full costume muttering "Flamingo...Iron looker...Captain Spandex..."

And also why they had such muscled legs.

TBC...Let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

I'm very sorry it took so long to update! I hit a huge patch of writer's block. Here's the second chapter! I still don't own any Marvel characters. Please review.

Phil Coulson stared across the table at his two agents, hands clutched around a cup of coffee not nearly big enough for the late hour of the day. Clint wiped his bleeding nose and raised an eyebrow.

"Sir?"

Coulson blinked once. Twice. Then he chugged the remainder of his coffee and folded his hands in front of him. _I am a SHIELD agent. I am a handler. I can handle this._

"Continue, Barton. And you-" He looked at Natasha, who was fiddling with the ragged sleeve of what looked to be a maintenance suit while looking longingly at the door- "stay put."

Natasha crept behind a long building ringed by dirty snow and crouched behind someone's rusted out pickup. She pulled at her janitor's uniform, the material large on her thin frame, and stepped over to the door, bag in her hand. She blew a gum bubble and popped it right as the door opened. A harried-looking man with a dirty white t shirt and a clipboard looked out.

"Janitorial?"

"Yessir. I was told you needed a hand with the floors in here?" Natasha shifted her weight to her right side. "I have all my supplies in here." She jiggled her bag.

"Yeah, yeah." The guy held open the door wider. "Badge?"

She obediently held out her clip-on ID and the guy scanned it.

"Go inside and find Greg. He's on cleaning for this building. Stay out of the back dressing rooms, that's performers only and I don't need trespassing claims or drama this close to showtime." He shut the door behind her and walked away, leaving her to slip into the chaos of the storage area. She picked up a mop and pretended to attack the puddles by the entrance doors, glancing about as she did so.

The building was several hundred feet long and maybe a hundred wide. A quick estimate led her to believe there were at least ten others dressed like her, a few people carrying props and boxes with headsets and crisp black pants. And at least two armed security guards, both with standard issue guns for officers. Natasha slowly worked her way toward the back of the room, where a hallway with a battered sign label led to a peeling brown door labeled "Performers Only". She allowed herself a small smile.

 _Performers only._

Natasha slipped through the door.


End file.
